


Shadows

by TheLightIsMine



Category: Star Wars Legends: Republic Commando Series - Karen Traviss, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Assassination, Bombs, Dark, Gen, Hacking, Soldiers, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-02-25 16:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2628419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLightIsMine/pseuds/TheLightIsMine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Highly intelligent, deviant, disturbed—and uncommandable." Series of vignettes showing the darker side of the Nulls and their work during the Clone Wars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. N-5: Shadow

The weight of the blade in his hand was familiar, the grip cool against his smooth, toughened palm that came from a lifetime of wearing gloves. Standing in the shadowed corner with his back to the chair in the centre of the room, he picked at some dirt under his fingernails with the tip of the blade, waiting for the choking behind him to stop. One of the chair's legs was shorter than the others; the rhythmic clacking of the wood against the cold floor as the chair rocked grated on his nerves. The harsh overhead light swung from a creaking chain. The knife rang as he slid it against his palm.

"Once more," he said. "Don't lie to me again."

The choking turned into shallow breaths, and just as he thought with an itch of irritation that the man wouldn't answer him and he'd have to  _persuade_ him further, words gasped forth from a hoarse throat.

"She…they…" A cough. Swallowing. He could almost hear the sweat drops hit the stone beneath their feet. Not his. He closed his eyes, fist clenching. Patience wasn't his forte. _Information procurement_  was.

Or whatever the new fancy jargon was for this.

"She?" he asked quietly, turning his head to look over his shoulder at the bloodied figure in the chair. A slow smile spread across cracked lips.

"She told me… _to tell you where you can go kiss her-!_ "

Fast, sudden, a flare of frustrated anger, a fist slammed into the gut.

The ropes strained as the man bent double in the chair, convulsing, the short chair leg clacking loudly on the stone as the weight was flung forwards. Blood splattered to the floor between his feet.

Flexing his fist, he leaned over and lifted the man's head sharply, hard enough to let him know how easy it would be to break his neck. Blood trickled crimson from the corner of the man's mouth, and he saw defiance in the cold grey eyes that glittered out from the darkness. But he saw no fear in this man's eyes yet.

That was fine. He had all night, and a whole range of new techniques he'd been practising along the way.

"Try again," he growled. A glob of spit-stained blood splattered just below his eye, and the anger reared its ugly head again, baring sharp teeth. It bit, and a knee to the face threw the chair backwards as the man's nose was shattered. He took a deep breath, pushing the heat of fury back into its box, and leaned over to look into the cold eyes again.

"Forget it," the split lips muttered thickly. Instead of hitting him again, though he dearly wanted to, he took a moment to stare the man down and then retreated out of the pool of light and into the shadows again.

Sheathing his blade – for now - he found his bag and reached inside. His fist closed around the cool handle, and he pulled it out and set it to one side, reaching in again for- yes. "I tend not to forget things." He kept his voice slow and level, the quiver of anger at the tips of his fingers. He wanted to hurt this man. Slowly.

This man would die of course. Whether or not he was aware of that yet, he didn't know. But he did know that the thought of killing him made him feel nothing at all.

As he fondled the narrow, sharp items, rolling them around in his fingertips, it occurred to him that he had never stopped to question what he did. The walls dingy with damp, the stench of blood and sweat, pleading tears. The cries of agony and the hollow echoes. Limp bodies. Floors slick with vomit, and worse.

The dead eyes.

The eyes, he decided a long time ago, were the most unnerving part of this. Even in the shadows they pierced the gloom. Thankfully he'd done too much of this to have nightmares any more. Perhaps that was the point. He'd done too much of this.

They weren't always men; sometimes women. Sometimes children. The youngest he'd had to slot had been ten years old, a boy still rasping out profanities even as he'd choked on his own blood. He'd given him the easy way out, because the boy had reminded him so much of his brothers.

Even then he still couldn't muster up an ounce of emotion. Age was simply a number. It didn't define anything about who you were or what you did. If you ended up in this chair, you weren't any different from one another at the end of it all.

He himself was just twelve, going on twenty-four.

He pricked the tip of his finger with one of the pins, and blood bloomed on the skin before dripping to the floor with an echoing plop, looking black in the dim light. No, age had nothing to do with it.

"No, I tend not to forget anything," he said again quietly, letting the grip of the hammer slide back into his palm. He hefted it a little, and satisfied with its weight he turned back to the captive.

"I'll make you a deal. The more you tell me…" he narrowed his eyes and swung the hammer into his palm, judging whether or not the man was going to bite. "…The more body parts you get to keep."

A silent contest. Unwavering, the cold granite met fierce bronze. He held the gaze, swinging the hammer absently, leaning indifferently against the worktop where his bag of instruments lay. The light's chain whispered a creak. The man narrowed his icy eyes infinitesimally, a slight tremble, and he knew that the man was trying to judge whether or not he meant what he'd said. But it was hard to see into anything that hid in the shadows.

Granite hit bronze. A spark. A barking laugh.

"I'm waiting," it spat. "For you to show me something original."

He sounded unafraid, but the hands gripped the arms of the chair, a slight tremor in the sneering disgust. White knuckles stood out like islands in the grime. That's where he would start.

He gave a cool smile, nodding to himself. Just as he'd planned, then. He made as if to turn away from the man, and then swung.

The hammer connected with a sickening, cracking slam, and the scream that echoed off the walls dug deep into his skull, filling his ears with static. He felt the bones break, felt them give way under his grip, and he stood back, cocking an eyebrow. He wasted no time; picking up the pins. The ice cold eyes met him with a semblance of fear, melting to tears in their corners.

"You ain't getting much better."

"You," he growled, "Shut up. Unless," he leaned down and smiled conversationally at the man, but the hard-edged glint in his eye told the man he was anything but. "You have something you'd like to tell me?" This time he saw it coming and dodged the spit, before slamming his fist down on the crushed hand. A howl, like a wolf, grating and raw. He twisted, just a little. A strangled yelp.

"You son of a  _bitch_! I got a  _lot_  to say to you…!" the man hissed through streaming eyes.

"Let me put this another way," he lowered his voice, straightening up and turning away to reach for the pins. He didn't feel anything inside, just the wide-open void where he found peace. You could either kill hot or you could kill cold. "You  _will_  tell me what I want to know, if you value anything even remotely to do with your ability to reproduce."

There was a pause, a silence, where the man hung his head so he couldn't see his face. At first he mistook the gesture for despair, but it became clear as he raised his head again that he was far from scared.

"Please," the man scoffed, a laugh teasing the edges of his voice, "I've heard better threats from a nuna chick. You just want me t'tell you what you want to know so that you can go home and feel like going around killing people like this is a job well done, at the end of the day." The man spat eloquently between his feet, narrowed his eyes at him. He strained forwards suddenly, the ropes pulling taut with a snap. "Well I say – screw you! You got no hold over me, and when you go home you deserve someone waiting for you in the shadows to show you what it feels like to be in this chair! You're a savage."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he snarled, grabbing the head of one of the pins under the man's nails, "No idea!" He pulled on it slowly, hearing the squelch as it retracted, feeling the hoarse screams under his skin. He could see it moving through the fingernail, just under the nail bed, and he managed to drag it out half way before slamming it all the way back in again.

The howls receded. He found his hands were trembling with rage, and he struggled to contain it as the black void inside him started spewing up thoughts he didn't want to face.

Like how he and his brothers trained other men to do this. To become cold, heartless monsters with no emotion, no thought of the suffering they inflicted. They could barely be called men. He clung on to his identity, that idea of family, and those fine threads kept him sane as he tore others apart. But the brothers he'd trained didn't have such ideals. They were lost.

He retreated into the shadows and clenched his fist. At the end of the day, it was whatever helped you sleep at night. You couldn't spend your time worrying about things you had no control over.

The man in the chair spat again. "You think I don't know who you are? They call you the Shadow. 'Cause you come out of the dark and they don't see you until you're right behind 'em." He sniffed, swallowed, a low, hoarse laugh rumbling in his throat. "And by then it's too late…yeah…I know 'bout you. You killed a few colleagues o' mine last time I checked."

He turned slowly, picked up his knife. A drop of liquid – blood? Water? Who knew – plopped and splashed silently in a pool in the corner of the room, and the knife slithered out of its sheath. "You know nothing about me."

"I know you want to find that Ko Sai lady. An' I know that she paid me way too much to keep my peace for me to just tell you everythin' over a caf and cakes," the man muttered darkly.

He scowled, furiously impatient. "Sorry I skimped on the cakes." He flicked the knife around his fingers a few times, twirling it as he came into view again. "But I had more  _important_  things to worry about at the time."

He didn't have time for this. None of them had time for this. He needed answers,  _results_ , not preamble that went around in circles.

Clawing, shaking anger built up pressure in his chest, roaring through his veins, and this time he gave in to it. The knife sang almost silently as he slashed, slicing into the bound arm of the man. Blood poured out, dripping onto the floor, and the man let out a feral yell. He didn't stop to talk this time. He slashed and hacked and cut everywhere he could see skin, the blood getting on his hands, his clothes, his shoes and his mind. He saw red everywhere, knowing he couldn't kill cold any more. It got personal from here on in.

The man was weeping, blood running into his eyes, which flashed out at him as he stopped to wipe the sweat from his eyes, glittering with the beginnings of  _fear_.  _Finally_. He raised the blade again, ready to strike into raw flesh this time, and the man screamed.

"Stop!"

He paused, knife poised to fall. In the silence, blood dripped forlornly onto the stone floor and the light swung gently, squeaking a friendly reminder that irritated his nerves. His mouth quirked up at the corner in a cold smirk.

"No."

He lost track of time, his mind shutting off, his body on autopilot. The knife was soon replaced by his fists again, the fists by an electroprod. The convulsions sent the chair's short leg banging against the stone floor. The air was heavy with the stench of blood and urine, charged with electric bolts that pressed down on his chest. His black shirt clung to him with sweat.

Eventually he paused to take a sip of water. The man eyed the canister with bloodshot eyes; he gave a smirk as he drank.

"Seems I skimped on the caf, too," he said, and then held out the canister. "You want some?"

The man said nothing. Didn't even move. The vein in his neck pulsated with fury as he tried to blink crusted blood out of his eyes.

"Too bad," he growled, and took a long swig. His hand reached in his bag for something as he replaced the flask. "Now I'm going to make good my earlier promise about damaging your ability to reproduce. Any last words?" The man stayed stubbornly silent, aside from a stifled, choked half-sob. "Didn't think so."

The sobs turned into hiccups, which in turn began to morph into chuckling. At first he mistook the high, wheezing sound as sobbing, but the chuckling turned into hysterical laughter as the man threw his head back and cackled. He froze.

"Something funny?" he asked quietly. The man continued to laugh, a high, panic-stricken gasp that aggravated him, scratched on the inside of his skull. He slammed the electroprod into the man's underarm again with a grunt. "Something  _funny_?"

The man cried out, but laughed harder and hunched over. Tears plopped onto the floor between his feet, the man's ribcage spasming. He grabbed the man under the chin and threw his head back so he would look at him. The ice in his eyes had melted into tears, but the rest of his face was an ugly sight of drying blood and raw flesh.

"You…you…I…" the man broke off into frantic laughter again, and he hit him across the face to shut him up. He shook his shoulders hard enough to give him whiplash.

" _You_  are going to  _shut up_  right  _now_!" he roared. It was enough to frighten the man to a hiccupping halt.

"I…I know nothing," the man started to laugh again, and leered at him with a self-satisfied smirk. "Some guy approached me on the street an' handed me a huge lump o' creds and told me to cover for him as long as 'e needed. I didn't think this was gonna happen!"

The man dissolved into fits of frenzied, high laughter again as a cold wave washed over him, constricting his throat. He stood up straight, heart pounding painfully against his ribcage as if it wanted to break out and run. "You're lying."  _Please tell me you're lying…_

"No," the man sighed, "No, I ain't. And let me tell you – this has been fun, but you gotta let me go now. While you've been holed up in here with me, the real guy has had enough time to get off planet and disappear. Good luck trying to get 'im back. He'll be star systems away."

He leaned in again, bile rising in his throat with the terrible feeling that he was falling. "You got a name for this guy?"

"Why would I tell you that? You can't keep me here no more now y'know I don't know nothin'."

A cold, calm feeling settled in his gut. No, the man wouldn't have told this man his name. You kept your mouth shut for credits.

He'd been so  _stupid_! He'd wasted hours here when he could have been hunting the real man he wanted, not some phony with the intelligence of a Hoth ice worm! Angry, painfully so, and filled with a disappointment that drained him, he stood up and nodded silently. He wanted to kick something, but that would wait until later.

He disappeared into the shadows, attempting to quell the furious, gnawing disappointment in the time he'd wasted, in  _himself_. His hands trembled with shock; he shook them out. He couldn't miss now. "That's where you're wrong." He drew his Verpine from the bag, loaded a clip. "Very wrong."

He clicked the safety catch off. The man's eyes widened in terrified realisation. "No…hey, wait a minute…"

"You admitted yourself that you know nothing." He checked the charge on the Verpine; it whirred almost silently in the gloom. "So therefore you are of no further use to me."

"No…please, wait, I-"

"You  _do_  know something?"

A silence. Panicked breathing. Creaking chain, dripping blood. The stench of fear hung heavy in the putrid air; the man swallowed.

"N-no….but-"

"Shut up," he said quietly. His arm extended, light falling on the clenched hand with the Verpine in its steady grasp.  _This_ , he knew how to do. The man shook his head frantically, grey eyes fixed on the gun.

"No-!"

Verpine shots were virtually silent. Except for the screaming afterwards. But this time there would be no screaming; the round went straight in through the forehead and the blood splattered the wall behind. Steel grey eyes bulged, staring up at the ceiling. Dead.

"I said," he muttered quietly, "Shut up.  _Hut'uun_."

He stood in the shadows listening to the gentle  _plish-plop_  of blood dripping onto the stone floor. It was the first real, heavy silence he'd had all day, all week. A silence where you could hear your own thoughts, whether you wanted to or not; they echoed in the hollow of his bones.

A wave of crushing disappointment settled over him as he knew he'd failed, then anger, rising in goosebumps over his flesh, because he'd done everything he could and he'd been  _played_.  _Shab_. Then it settled, washed away, and he was left with an empty echo of himself in his bones, the heavy afterglow of knowing it was over for now and knowing there was nothing you could do to go back. He stuffed his knife back into his bag, and then reached for his comlink slowly. After a pause, he called.

" _Kal'buir?_ No go. We're going to have to find another way to get to her." He sighed wearily, hanging his head and rubbing his face with his blood-smeared hand. "I'm sorry,  _buir_. I've failed you."

" _Prudii?_ Ad'ika _, don't worry about it. We'll get her eventually. She can't hide up forever. I've got a few more tricks up my sleeve. You just focus on getting home now so we can figure something else out. Your_ vode _are waiting for you._ "He listened in silence to his father's familiar voice; nodded once, too tired to argue.

"Okay. I'll clean up here and head home.  _K'oyacyi_."

The link went dead; the silence descended again. He turned around and stared at the limp, lifeless body in the chair, wondering how he would get rid of the evidence. If the local government found the body, they'd find his DNA all over it in fingerprints and blood and sweat. Even if it did come back to a genome of Jango Fett, who was supposed to be dead. Still, even in such a Grand Army there were only six of him. That narrowed the field for the geneticists to play with. No matter how careful you were or how much you cleaned and scrubbed, they always found something.

He rummaged in his bag for his lighter again, and then flicked it on with a  _ding-chlack_. Not even the shadows saved you from fire.

His footsteps sounded loud as he walked once around the body, dousing it with accelerant again. Once he stepped in something slippery that squelched underfoot; likely flesh. Liquid splashed sloppily onto the stone, mixing with blood. He threw some up the walls, into the corners, and then stood back.

Taking a deep, hollow breath, he closed his eyes, stretched his neck, rolled his shoulders. Long day. He'd have time for a nap on the way home. The bag's handle was cool and smooth in his grip as he shouldered it, taking a second to look back at the body and make sure he felt nothing.

No. Just the dull, tired ache in his bones. There would be more, and this body was just in the way of his goal, just another in the line. His allegiances lay with his family. And he'd do anything for his family.

_Ding-chlack._

Like a shadow in the night, he was gone.


	2. N-7: The Dead of the Night

The door slid open with a soft whisper, allowing him entry.

His feet fell like shadows, silently on plush carpet, the only sound the gentle hum of appliances as they dozed. He glanced briefly around the gloom, not needing to know what kind of person she was, but curious. It was a waste of his memory; the place was no different from every other apartment in this sector. She was just another one of them. Just another rich girl, just another target. Her home was as anonymous as the faces on the street that never glanced twice.

Just another merlie in the herd.

He made his way across the sea of purple – or blue, perhaps it was blue in the light, though it didn't really matter – and took a moment to listen at her door, waiting. He knew the sound of her sleep, the gentle breaths that murmured across the pillow. He couldn't hear it through the wall, but she was asleep, he knew that much. The silence of the room was holding its breath.

Another door yielded silently and his heartbeat grew quicker with anticipation. It was darker in here, the blinds shuttered against the garish city lights. He understood the necessity. In the rectangle of dim light the door let pour through, he could just make out her face, half hidden by his shadow. He moved closer, to the side of the bed. Close enough to touch her.

Looking down on her was just as he remembered; though the circle of his arms was absent from the frame tonight, as was the reflection of his eyes in hers. Closed in sleep, she would never know what was coming.

She'd been sleeping in his bed last night, in his arms.

They said that in sleep, you were closest to death.

His hands felt under his coat for the cool grip of the blaster and his thumb stroked it for a moment, almost as if hesitating. But as he always did, he drew it from his coat with a slither of leather and clicked the safety off.

He settled his fingers in the familiar grooves and looked down at her face one more time. His heart leapt for a moment as she stirred, mumbling something that could – might have been his name.

Or the one he'd given her.

A slight whirring sound as the blaster thrummed; a familiar lurch in the pit of his stomach, and then it settled cool and hard and clear.

A flash of blinding light, and a burn mark on her pillow. The silence breathed.

After a pause, in which he almost regretted it, he turned and walked away.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! Heh.
> 
> A second piece to show the darker side of the Nulls' work during the Clone Wars, this time with Mereel. I have one for each of the Nulls planned, so stay tuned for more. :)
> 
> Massive thanks to laloga for beta'ing! Your words were inspiring.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you thought.


	3. N-12: Pressure

The damn light kept swinging when the freight trains went by.

He'd learned after a few hours to block out the blaring warning horns and floor-shaking rumbling that followed them. But the swinging light was the worst. It was the difference between a right and a wrong wire. That unsettled him. His fingers trembled as he unscrewed a connector pin, and he swore and dropped it. His heart pounded in sheer terror for a split second before the realisation he was still alive sunk in again.

He took the time to shake it out and wipe the sweat that stung his eyes. He was a professional, dammit.

Rolling his shoulders, he felt the ache blooming between his shoulder blades. He went back in and extricated the connector pin with his fingers, removing his hands in slow motion. His heart rate returned to a normal level, and he realised for the first time all day – or night, or whatever – how hungry he was. He was distantly aware of a full bladder, too.

He reached behind him for his long-since discarded armour; found his belt and removed a ration pack. He'd have time for a proper meal when he was sure his head wasn't going to blow off. He flexed his fingers and chewed on the tasteless cube. The rumbling started again; the light trembled.

He heard the angry horn and bit back a groan; the train screamed past and the swinging started again, throwing the whole room into a nauseating shadow dance.

One of the partially disassembled parts of the shell fell from the table and he grabbed for it just in time. He froze, convinced for a moment that he was dead, and then - some kind of disappointed relief. His whole body was stiff and bruised from lying on the floor for so long, the tips of his fingers rubbed raw. Death breathed down his neck.

He was more alive because of it.

It was a constant ride of adrenaline rushes and primal fear; moments of relief that broke the smooth surface of his concentration. The corners of the stained and gritty walls were thrown into shadow by the light, and the darkness in his peripherals reminded him too much of his nightmares. He could feel something hiding there.

Like a surgeon working in the body cavity of a patient, he twisted metal and wires out of shape and pulled them apart with a practised dexterity. Above him, thousands of people would never know that they were putting their lives in his broken hands. His heart rate had acclimatised to a constant quick thumping that would have made him vomit if he'd been paying any attention to it.

A red light hidden in its bowels broke the dull yellow light with an urgent flashing. Bile rose in his throat in a moment of unbridled panic, which he clamped down on and ran through all possibilities in his mind at lightning speed. He calculated he had mere minutes.

Minutes would be enough.

His neck muscles ached, his body was drenched in sweat. Minutes. He had minutes. He pulled at wires and circuits, the floor covered in parts, running through procedure in the same speed he could flick the pages of the manual. He felt wild elation for a moment when he found the switch, then reached for the wire cutters-

They weren't there.

Another horn screeched close by and the train thundered past. The light swung, more violently this time, so much he felt the room was roiling and turning. He scrambled blind with his fear-numbed fingers, and they closed around a grip.

The red flashing stopped.

He felt for the right wire and cut it.

* * *

Minutes.

Minutes later he was walking along the same street he'd been under, a heavy bag slung over his shoulder and dressed as another inconspicuous civvie. The people he passed didn't even glance at him, their minds on other things. Not that they had almost died with him in a glorious fireball.

The thanks of a grateful Republic.

The scent of fresh pastries caught his attention, and he stopped at a capcaf window.  _Manda_ , it had been a close one. He  _shabla_  deserved it.

He heard a freight train's horn blow in the distance and flinched.

His reflection laughed at him.

**...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three down, three to go. Coming up next will be either Jaing or Ordo, so keep an eye out. :) Hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you thought. :) Half way there... ;)
> 
> ~Light


	4. N-10: Hands

There was a reason it was called slicing. Hacking.

Bloody, violent terms.

But, he mused as he flexed his fingers, he never had to get  _his_ hands dirty. The keys glowed beneath his fingertips, reminding him that he was a breath away from all the information anyone could ever want. It was oddly comforting, the soft thrumming of the computer in the background was an almost anticipatory murmur. They were both ready.

Irritated static burst over his comlink. " _You doing this or not?_ "

He rolled his neck and pursed his lips, then licked them once; a pre-battle ritual. With a grunt he unlocked the keypad and brought up the system mainframe.

"I'm doing this. Keep your  _kovid_  on."

Immediately a series of codes flashed across the screen, too fast for eyes to catch, the uplink on his HUD blinking like a Coruscanti Carnival show. It startled him for a moment, as it always did, but a split second later he was catching up.

His fingers found the keys they needed, the output on his datapad showing the progress he was making. He chased the right digits through the system, eyes scrolling through the jumble of letters and finding a pathway into the brain of the beast. Keys clicked as he worked, struggling against a current until – access. He saw its nerves, the impulses firing that told it when to turn, where to go.

When to kill.

He fought for control, the heavily encrypted link already pushing him out again, sensing an unknown presence. He swore to himself, chewing the inside of his cheek absently, eyes never leaving the screen as his heart rate increased. The firewalls threw up their shields and he was caught for a split second, but he rattled off an evasive code and checked the datapad output.

 _Shab_ , this was cutting it fine…

" _Coming in fast,_  vod…"

He attacked the keys harder, hands flying across the board with practised precision. "I'm working on it."

Tension crept up his spine and tightened in his throat; he felt his hands start to shake from the adrenaline and he wanted to take his hands off the keypad for moment to clench and unclench his fists. But he couldn't; at this point a second out meant his brother would be-

Well. Toast.

He took a deep breath to calm the quivering in his gut, fingers still blurring across the screens in front of him. The datapad output was like timer counting down in his peripherals, and in a moment of stomach-flipping doubt he didn't think he'd be able to crack it.

Crack. Another one of those sickening words.

Red flashed up in his HUD and he blinked, trying to catch up with the code output. He swore again and scanned the overwhelming amount of numbers and letters, and found what he was looking for. He slammed out a series of keys and waited for confirmation of his success.

For a horrible moment he thought he'd failed, and then red turned to green.

Before he could think about it he ran the self-destruct sequence. And then as he always did, he paused before hitting the final key.

The datapad output exploded in a split second white-hot flare, and then clicked into scrambled static.

It was the usual anticlimax. He didn't even get to see the fireball.

For a moment all he could hear was the thudding of his blood in his ears and the constant thrumming of the computer. It seemed rather empty now. He licked his lips and tasted blood, and realised he must have bitten his lip at some point but didn't remember doing it. Didn't remember the pain.

A held breath whooshed through the link. " _Well_  shab..."

And then he was fine again.

"And that,  _Ord'ika_ ," he said, sitting back and cracking his knuckles with a satisfied smile, "Is how you remote detonate a pre-targeted missile from your desk."

" _Well how about next time you show off a bit and detonate it a little further away from its target_ ," Ordo sounded mildly irritated. " _Ruined the paint-job_."

He removed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his forehead.  _Sure. I'll try harder next time..._

"You're _frakkin'_  welcome," he snorted.

Ordo grunted and then the link went dead.

He closed his eyes and waited for his hands to stop shaking. The gentle thrum of the computer washed over him and purged the last of the adrenaline from his system, and slowly he relaxed, smiling even as his hands clenched into fists under the desk.

**...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kovid - head
> 
> So that was Jaing's piece. I wasn't sure about all of the techie stuff but it was actually a lot of fun, and I've always wanted to have a try at the Nulls doing some hacking. Next up will be Ordo! Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed the last few, your words rock! :) Huge thanks to my beta for putting up with my incessant prattle - and beta'ing for me - you're awesome. ;D
> 
> I'd appreciate a review if you have the time. :) Thanks for reading.


	5. N-11: Null and Void

" _You're frakkin' welcome._ "

Ordo grunted his thanks and then cut the link, turning back to glance at the prisoner.

She looked rather shaken.

 _Good_.

He made the jump to hyperspace. As soon as the stars blurred his eyes, he stood and took his blaster from its holster again. He looked at it resting in the grip of his palm for a moment, silent, until heavy breathing - not his - distracted him. A flare of irritation shot through his chest and his fist clenched around the blaster's grip with a creak of his gloves.

He stepped closer and he heard her struggle against her binds. A small whimper escaped the gag across her mouth, and he stared down at her wild, fear-filled eyes. He felt nothing. No pity.

No remorse.

He considered for a moment, and then knelt to remove her gag. The rip of tape felt loud in the small cabin, and immediately she began gasping as though he'd been suffocating her. He almost rolled his eyes, but settled for walking the length of the room to relieve his annoyance.

He paused in the shadows, turning his head to assess her frightened form. His glance was enough to silence her. She looked at him with terror in her eyes.

"Don't bother screaming." He ran a hand along the barrel of the blaster. "I promise you, no one will hear you."

She appeared to swallow a reply. Satisfied he was in control, he turned to face her and leaned against the bulkhead, making sure the blaster was in plain sight. He needed to keep her scared. He regarded her casually; for a government spy she was somewhat... _soft_. But then he doubted she had ever planned on coming up against  _this_. He doubted she thought she would have been caught.

Or ratted out.

Amateur.

She took a trembling breath. "W-who are you? What do you want?"

He stared at her for a moment and then looked away. His lip curled. "I am nothing. A shadow."

She seemed to be waiting for him to elaborate, but he stayed silent, fingers clicking the safety catch on his blaster. She swallowed again and took the same shaky breath, straightening her spine and lifting her chin.

"I'm not going to talk."

The attempt at defiance disgusted him. His fist slammed into the bulkhead with a loud bang and she flinched away from him in terror. He marched up to her and stood over her with the blaster aimed between her eyes, nostrils flaring with suppressed rage he didn't know he'd been holding. She closed her eyes and her lips trembled, but to her credit she did not cry.

He held the blaster steady.

"W-what do y-you-?"

"You still don't understand, do you?" The words were out before he could stop them.

Silence.

His fingers tightened around the blaster. "You're nothing. You're  _expendable_."

_I'm not. That's the difference between you and I. I will be missed._

She shook her head; the minutest of movements as if she was afraid it would be the death of her. "M-my people – they'll be looking for me. They'll pick up where I left off." Her voice was barely a whisper. "They'll find you, you know."

He looked at her, completely void of any feeling. He noticed she didn't make any reference to a family. How could she be so stupid? He'd thought spooks were supposed to be the ones with all the information.

"Your people won't miss you."

She sniffed. "I won't talk. You can't make me."

" _Chakaar_ ," he spat. "You don't get it, do you? I don't need you to  _talk_." He scowled and the hand holding the blaster began to shake. "Your spook friends already did that for you."

Her brow wrinkled in confusion, and he pressed the blaster up to her forehead, letting out an exasperated snarl. She looked up at him with wide eyes filled with pure fear.

"They…?"

He didn't say anything.

He watched with a sense of satisfaction as realisation dawn in her bruised eyes. Disappointment flashed across them, and then anger furrowed her brow. And then she began to tremble, and broke down into sobs.

"They  _used_  you." He didn't move. "You're nothing but an empty shadow to be filled by the next one in line." She shook her head, but he knew she didn't believe her own convictions. His job was done. He pulled back the catch and the blaster whirred, charging.

She snapped out of it, panic seizing her. "P-please…I'll do anything!" she gasped, "I can become someone else, I can- I can live a different life," she pleaded, a single desperate tear spilling down her face. "I promise you, I-I'll…I'll disappear-!"

"Yes," he said, "You will."

Then he pulled the trigger.

The silence after the shot was sudden, slamming into him like a permabrick wall. He stared down at her crumpled form and felt absolutely nothing, just the simple satisfaction of having completed a necessary task. He wondered for a brief moment if he should feel something, but he was more concerned with disposal details.

He would have to dump her body out of the airlock. She would disappear into the cold void of space and no one would ever know what had happened to her. Even her death was meaningless; shot in hyperspace. She died nowhere, as a nobody. Just another shadow in the darkness of this galaxy.

He realised he didn't even know her name.

He almost reached for her jacket to look for identification, and then decided he didn't care enough. He had too many named horrors in his nightmares. He took one last look at her empty shell of a body and then returned to the cockpit, chasing off the dark void of his thoughts. He thought he might call Besany. Or Kal'buir, perhaps.

He sat in the pilot's seat and stared out at the streaking tunnel of hyperspace, and eventually it slowed to static dots of light as he arrived out of travel. He went back into the cargo hold where his demons awaited him.

* * *

A few minutes later he was watching the body spin listlessly in zero gravity as he left it behind. Satisfied, he opened his comlink. She answered on the first ring.

"Ordo," he heard the smile in her voice and the knot in his chest loosened. "How are you?"

He glanced at the pale limbs that waved him goodbye, the only white in the darkness at the back of his mind.

He didn't falter. "I'm fine,  _cyar'ika_. I'm just fine."

**...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five out of six done! As you can see this one starts where Jaing's piece left off. Let me know what you thought of this one, I had a lot of fun with parallels. :) Please leave a review if you liked! Thank you to my long suffering beta for having a glance at it all those weeks ago ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Kom'rk is on the way.
> 
> ~Light


	6. N-6: Intelligence

" _I wear my shadows where they're harder to see, but they follow me everywhere. I guess that should tell me I'm travelling toward light._ "  _\- Bruce Cockburn_

* * *

It took him thirteen seconds to crack the door code.

When he stepped over the threshold, the darkness inside swallowed him whole , and he swept the room with a single, practice movement of his wrist scanner. Another agonising three seconds elapsed before a green light pierced the gloom.  _All clear_.

He hadn't realised he'd been holding his breath.

This part was always the hardest; standing in a space that didn't belong to him and feeling its disapproval of his presence in every shadow, tangible as a hand pressed against his chest. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The air smelled like a stranger, and the silence watched him. Waiting for something.

Or someone.

Not him. He was a ghost.

He reached into his pocket for the tiny devices, feet padding over the carpet as he headed for the back room. With his other hand, he ran a thumb over the blaster concealed in his jacket. He was beginning to get  _edgy_ , as Mereel liked to say. He'd spent too long in the dark, and he was beginning to realise the longer you spent in the dark, the more you adjusted to the darkness around you – and the things he saw lurking in the shadows haunted his nightmares.

_Intelligence_ , they called it. The more he knew, the less he wanted to.

He ran his hand under the edge of a side table, feeling for a space to place the device, and he paused.

The silence had changed.

He wasn't sure how long exactly his subconscious had been aware, but it suddenly became obvious, like the slow rising of a sun. It was the sound of a room  _trying too hard_ , and he knew it well. A burst of adrenaline flooded his chest and straightened his spine. Something whispered over the nape of his neck, and he turned just in time to miss the arm that flew past his shoulder.

A blade glinted in the gloom a split second before it nicked his cheek.

Another surge of adrenaline shot through his gut.  _He has a knife, he has a knife…_ His body acted reflexively, and he lashed out with his left arm. His elbow connected with something solid, and an ' _oof_ ' spat into his face.  _Rookie mistake. Now I know where your head is_. He balled a fist and aimed in the direction of the sound; the impact of his attacker's jaw shuddered down his arm as something wet splattered his cheek. The attacker stumbled backwards a couple of paces, and through the dim moonlight that peered through the window drapes he could just make out the shape of a man.

His attacker prepared to rush forwards; he only had seconds to reach for his own weapon, but barely managed to draw it before he was bodyslammed against the wall. His head smacked the permacrete and his vision blurred with tiny pinpricks of light, dizzying him, and all he could tell was that his arms were pinned above him in a deadlock struggle, so close he could smell the assailant's breath and sweat.

He aimed upwards with his knee, for the groin, but met solid plates of armour. The grip around his wrists tightened and  _twisted_ , and he dropped the blaster as pain shot down his arm. Growling in pain and frustration, he went still – a potentially fatal decision - and in the back of his mind he saw the glint of a blade rush for his throat, but he pushed the doubt away. He needed an element of surprise, and as he stilled, his attacker froze.  _Another rookie mistake_.

In a split second he surged forwards, pushing them both away from the wall and tackling the man to the floor. They rolled, and he reached for the blaster, but a kick from the attacker sent it skittering out of reach. He managed to get on top and pin the man down, having to use every ounce of his body weight as his assailant lashed out in an attempt to roll them.

A bead of sweat trickled down his spine. His attacker's blood was hot on his face. His heartbeat roared in his ears,as he looked down at the man grunting and flailing beneath him.,

What were they  _doing_? Was it really worth more blood on his hands?

And would this man would be in his nightmares tonight?

This time, the mistake was his. In his pause – and it was a pause, not hesitation, because he  _never_  hesitated – the man had taken advantage of his break in concentration and threw him off balance, smacking him to the floor. His head hit first, and stars burst before his eyes as he was blinded by the impact. He swore under his breath, and tried to get up, but his legs were pinned. Only training that ran deeply in his muscles told him to raise his arms, grabbing the fist that flew towards his face.

He gripped, hard, and this time  _he_ twisted. A yelp tore itself from the attacker's throat, and he used what remaining strength he had to force the man off him and to the ground. He kicked out, his boot connecting with the back of the man's head, and his assailant cried out again. He got to his feet while the other man stumbled, obviously dazed and rubbing the back of his head.

He moved to crouch behind the man and grabbed him by the neck; the pulse hammered beneath the man's throat as he raised his arms and attempted to claw at his victor's face. The man struggled and lashed out, but was now too disoriented to fight, and he placed his hands around the man's jaw and at the back of his head.

No doubt realising he was beaten, the attacker kicked his legs and struggled against the headlock, but his grip was much stronger. The vibroblade the man had been wielding clattered to the floor.

_A broken neck is a lot cleaner than a knife._

A muffled cry forced its way out from behind the hand over the mouth, and he readjusted his grip over it and tensed.

The man whimpered.

Five seconds passed, and then he let go.

"Endex!"

The dark apartment suddenly began to shimmer, like the surface of a smooth pool disturbed by a pebble, and disappeared into blocks of too-bright clinical white. He blinked and stood up, releasing the man to the floor, where he panted and probably fought the urge to retch, if the previous recruits were anything to go by. Closeness to death did funny things to the stomach. The walls began to fade. He retrieved his blaster and tucked it back inside his jacket.

When he turned around again, a uniform line of clone soldiers stood to attention beside the simulation box. Behind them screens were replaying moments from the fight minutes before, and the clone he had been fighting – Five-Three, he was called, because none of them seemed to have names yet - was on his hands and knees in front of them.

He moved to stand over him. "Get up."

Five-Three struggled to his feet, and he let him struggle. As Five-Three stumbled back into line with the others, he folded his arms and surveyed the troops with a critical eye meant to unnerve them. He checked his wrist-mounted chrono. Five-Three had been the best, and he used that term with irony. He'd held out for just under three minutes before being 'killed'.

In the silence,someone swallowed.

Now the adrenaline had ebbed; the cut on his cheek throbbed and his wrist ached, and no doubt a lump was forming where his scalp prickled.. He fought back a wince, because at least he was the better-off. He was an ARC. He caused more damage than he suffered.

He gave each man before him a three-second glare, something  _Kal'buir_  liked to do before he took someone down a few pegs. To their credit, none of them flinched, but looking at them now made him think it was due to nerves more than...emptiness.

Prudii had said that before they could be made into black-ops men, operators in the shadows, they needed to be broken down to nothing. But having spent the past week training with these men, he couldn't help but feel that they  _were_  already nothing. They already felt like ghosts. Their faces were as empty as those of dead men.

It...unsettled him.

Eventually, he cleared his throat. "Your first month of training is complete. I would give congratulations, but there are none to offer." He glanced over Five-Three, hoping for some kind of reaction to this failure,  _their_  failure, but the man stared straight ahead like the other recruits, not even a blink out of sync with them. Blood pattered onto the floor; the only sound in the room.

He continued, opting for a different tactic to elicit a reaction. "The easy part is over. You are now officially shadows, men with no identity, no purpose beyond the task you are given.  _Dar'manda_. You have been broken, and rebuilt into the most effective weapon the Republic has." He paused to look each one in the eye, individually. The irony of his last comment would be lost on them. "But do not be disheartened. It is easy to get lost, but look around you. You have brothers." They did not move, and so he repeated himself, barking, " _Look_."

Their heads turned at the same time, glancing left and right.

"The shadows are dark places, but you are only alone if you chose to be.  _Vode an._  Good luck, men. Dismissed."

They disbanded, more informally than their other actions, falling away in twos and threes towards the mess. He turned, wiping blood from the side of his face with his sleeve; fantasising about a hot shower and trying to squash the voice in the back of his mind that told him they'd all be dead within the next few weeks.

He trained men to die. He wondered if he'd ever have the  _gett'se_  to calculate his personal body count.

Someone cleared his throat behind him, and he turned slowly to fix Five-Three with a weary stare, eyebrow raised in silent question.

A frown furrowed Five-Three's brow. The image brought to mind a memory of Ordo as a young boy frowning as he absorbed one of  _Kal'buir_ 's teachings, and he softened a little as if tasting the sweetness of  _uj_  cake tingling on the tip of his tongue. It was the taste of home. Where Ordo was now? He hadn't heard from any of his brothers in months.

"Yes, Five-Three?" he prompted.

"Sir, what is ' _darmanda_ '? I'm not familiar with...this word."

He didn't know how to explain – how did you teach someone what they were? He gazed at Five-Three for a moment, recalling  _Kal'buir_ 's patient yet heartbroken words –  _a man who has lost his soul, his identity, a man who is lost; barely a man at all_ – yet finding them somehow too hard to bring down on this man who looked at him with eyes like Ordo's.

He sighed, placing a hand on Five-Three's shoulders. "It means someone who has lost himself."

"Is that what we are? Lost?"

He paused, taken aback by such astute words and the clarity behind them. Five-Three looked at him with a question in his gaze.

"No." He shook his head in an attempt to block out the empty eyes of the men he sent to war. "Not yet," he said, and turned to walk away. As he reached the door and turned back to see Five-Three still standing there, he took pity on him and called out, "Five-Three...start by choosing a name."

Five-Three jumped to attention. "Yessir! Will do, sir."

He took his leave, hoping, not for the first time, that he'd taught them enough.

* * *

Static crackled across the long distance line.

" _Kal'buir_?"

" _Yes, son?"_

"I've got a lead on our flitnat. He's on Utapau."

A pause. "Kandosii _, son. Take a break for a couple of days. Did Ordo mention we're meeting-?"_

"He did. I'm coming."

" _Good. I miss my boys._ "

Another pause.

" _Are you alright,_ ad'ika _? Everything okay?_ "

A sigh, shakier than he'd intended. Weary eyes falling closed. "I lost a man,  _buir_."

" _Tell me_."

"He didn't have a name. He didn't have time."

" _Doesn't mean we can't remember him._ "

Swallowing. Voice hoarse. "Okay."

" _Together?_ "

He took a breath, and they began.

" _Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum…_ "

"…Five-Three."

" _Five-Three_." His father's voice was like a hand resting on his shoulder. " _I'll add him to my list, son._ "

"Mine too."

Static silence.  _I remember you, so you are eternal. No longer lost._

"I have to go dark again soon."

" _Okay, son. See you soon_. K'oyacyi, ad'ika _._ "

" _K'oyacyi_."

That night, he turned off the light, and in the darkness he saw those empty eyes. Ghosts in the shadows, with faces as empty as dead men's, and no one to remember them but him.

Living in the shadows had its price.

**Finis**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...it's finished!
> 
> I'm so sorry that I kept you all waiting for a year, Kom'rk proved a difficult one to first come up with an idea for, and then finding the inspiration to write it. This is actually the fourth version of an idea - got there in the end though!
> 
> I guess there's a teeny tiny Easter Egg kinda thing in there? I suppose it's more of a nod to a comment in canon, see if you can spot it. ;)
> 
> A note about canon; I am aware that it is Prudii and Jaing who are listed as Nulls who trained black-ops men, but I thought it wasn't too much of a stretch that Kom'rk, so involved in the black-ops world as he is, would also be tasked to train intelligence officers as well. Poetic licence. :)
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this series - it was actually inspired by you guys, who, when I posted the first one, suggested it be made into a series - I never even thought of that! Thank you all for reading and your fabulous comments, and of course to laloga and JainDo for being my betas/idea testers/sample readers/general rocks. And for not saying I suck for not having anything done for like a year. ;)
> 
> I hope to have more writing done in 2015. See if I can keep this resolution! Thank you all for reading!
> 
> ~Light

**Author's Note:**

> Don't even ask why I wrote this. Some line in the short story 'Republic Commando: Odds' by Karen Traviss made me think that Prudii (whose name means 'shadow' in Mandalorian) was the 'specialist' of the Nulls in this field, and it just kind of…spawned an Evil Bunny. More Null action to come. :) One day I will go back and edit this for how bad it is...the others are much better, I promise.


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